Labyrinth (The Nameless Detective) Read Free Page A

weeks.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Depending on what it involves, of course.”
    “It’s a rather delicate family matter, concerning my brother. I’d prefer not to discuss the details on the phone, but it isn’t anything unseemly. We can discuss it at my home, if you don’t mind driving out. I’m sure it will be worth your time.”
    “When would you like me to come?”
    “As soon as possible,” she said. “The address is 2519 Twenty-Fifth Avenue North. In Sea Cliff.”
    I raised an eyebrow. Sea Cliff is a synonym for money in San Francisco; you don’t live there unless your yearly income is around six figures. “I can be there within the hour,” I said.
    “Fine. I’ll expect you.”
    She rang off, and I cradled the handset, gazing again at the Black Mask poster. Full-time job for at least two weeks, working for a lady in Sea Cliff? It was the kind of thing that always happened to the pulp private eyes, but that happened to me about as often as a woman who said “yes” on the first date. So there figured to be a catch in it somewhere that I was not going to like. The last time I had worked for a rich client—one of the few times in my career—I had wound up in the hospital with a knife wound in my belly. I still had the scars, one you could see and one you couldn’t.
    But then, why expect the worst? Maybe it was all going to be fine; maybe for a change I was going to get a break. I stood up and poured myself a quick cup of coffee. Then I locked the office and went down and out to pick up my car.

THREE
     
    Twenty-five nineteen Twenty-Fifth Avenue North turned out to be a massive beige stucco house separated from its neighbors by a lot of bright green lawn. Its architecture was so old-California Spanish that it looked as if it belonged in Los Angeles instead of San Francisco: red-tile roof, decorative wrought-iron balconies framing all of the windows, front portico with a black-beam archway, wall patterns here and there done in four colors of mosaic tile. There were even mosaic tile inlays in the series of terraced steps that led up from the street.
    I parked in front and climbed the steps. The rain had stopped, but the morning was still damp and dismal-gray with overcast; the wind here was blustery, knife-edged. Behind and on both sides of the house you could see the broad choppy sweep of the ocean and the entrance to the Bay, and through the low clouds the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, the brown hills of Marin, the cliffs at Land’s End. The view would be spectacular on a clear day, which was what made the Sea Cliff area prime real estate; even now it was pretty impressive.
    A big brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head sat in the center of the front door, but I found a doorbell button and used that instead. Chimes sounded faintly inside, faded to silence. Another ten seconds went by before a peephole above the knocker opened and an amber-colored eye peered out at me. A woman’s voice, different from the one on the phone, said “Yes?” in the tone people use on door-to-door salesmen.
    I gave my name and added that Mrs. Nichols was expecting me.
    Pause. “You’re that private detective.”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    Another pause. Then the voice said, “Just a moment,” and there was the scraping of a lock, the door opened, and I was looking at a tall slender woman in her early twenties. She had fine, pale-blonde hair cut short in the style we used to call shag and a pale sensitive face dominated by high cheekbones. The amber eyes were wide and striking. She wore one of those long button-down skirts that are supposed to be popular now, a white blouse and a little black knit vest.
    “Come in, please.”
    I went in. She shut the door, locked it again, waited for me to give her my coat, and then hung it away in a closet—all without smiling, speaking, or even looking at me. We went down a dark hall and through another of those Spanish archways into a living room. The floors were tiled and